


Smell

by lactoria



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1695230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lactoria/pseuds/lactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He offered her his sweater on a particularly chilly night, and Latula bundled up in it and conveniently forgot to return it.</p><p>Not that Porrim hasn’t knit him another one by now, not that Kankri would ever ask for it back, but she’ll return it.</p><p>After she has her wicked way with it that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smell

**Author's Note:**

> this was a commission for someone who wanted some pre-incident latula action.

This isn’t cool.  It’s not the rad girl thing to do.

But Latula Pyrope doesn’t need to put on a show or burn any brutal posers when she’s alone—especially when she is alone and naked save for a signature red sweater draped warmly over her titillated figure.

She lays, spread-legged and wanting, over the floor of her hive, the neck of one Kankri Vantas’ sweaters stretched out like a fabric tunnel masking her nose.  She takes a long, indulgent sniff of the material as her teeth idly gnaw at the bright red knit.

He offered her his sweater on a particularly chilly night, and Latula bundled up in it and  _conveniently forgot to return it_.

Not that Porrim hasn’t knit him another one by now, not that Kankri would ever ask for it back, but she’ll return it.

After she has her wicked way with it that is.

Her favorite sense has always been her sense of smell; the scent of dirt beneath her feet, the rush of wind as she’s grinding, the crisp grass during a tussle with Mituna, the unique aroma belonging to each of her friends.

Scents trigger memories, and memories keep her life vivid.

Kankri’s scent is forbidden, a touch of sweetness with a dash of musk.  She inhales so sharply that his odor goes right to her head, and it feels like a high.  Dizzy from it, Latula wraps a gloved a hand around her bulge and squeezes until her red-tipped toes curl.

Every flare of her nostrils inundates her with his fragrance.

"Ka—Kankz—"  She whimpers as she arches, her lust-pebbled nipples brushing against the soft knit, exciting her already-piqued senses.

She imagines it’s him, envisions his soft, soft fingertips against her nipples, his breath through the neck of his sweater, damp and needy.  Her lips part and her eyes close, and she slips a hand beneath the bright red sweater to cup and knead one of her perky breasts.

She lolls her head, his addicting smell assaulting her sniffnodes, glossy hair spilled around her head like some erotic aureole.

Oh, if Kankri could see her now, twitching and writing in sensual delight over his essence.

Burying her face in the scrunchy bundle of fabric, Latula continues to inhale until she is lightheaded and giddy, thumb circling the green-blue nub of her nipple, occasionally pinching and pulling.

She’s close; her nook is already pulsing, needy and empty and  _hungry_ but she won’t settle for anything but his bulge.

Depriving herself is just another delicious factor in this tawdry, taboo game she’s playing.

Latula loves games, especially those that are incredibly frustratingly infuriatingly _challenging_.

She sees only red through her glasses— _his color—_ every so often peeking down at her hand blurring along her bulge, pumping furiously, roughly, yanking at the throbbing flesh.

Her nook swells with desire as she plays out fantasies inside her pan.  Kankri buried between her thighs, eating her out with the gusto of a starving man.  Kankri biting and sucking and moaning and driving into her all night long, wearing her down, making her sweat, making her beg, making her sore.

And still not stopping.

She squishes her thighs together at the very last second, spine tingling, skin burning, and screams as the pressure between her legs explodes and the springs pop and her bulge erupts.

She kicks out, knocking her board on its side as she shrieks his name, fingers clasping her meat and working with short, hurried, frantic pulls until her knuckles are coated in teal—the warm geneslime dripping down her wrist.

In the ear-ringing aftermath, she heaves a satisfied sigh amid the labored panting trying her overtaxed pumper and sinks into the heap of her discarded clothes.

A good orgasm to her is the equivalent of beating that final boss.

Too bad Kankri won’t get to see the ending credits roll.


End file.
